


tonight, together, with the stars

by La_Temperanza



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Developing Relationship, Festivals, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Misunderstandings, POV Victor Nikiforov, Pining Victor Nikiforov, Slice of Life, Stargazing, Summer of mutual pining, Tanabata, Thirsty Victor Nikiforov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-12 09:31:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15992450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/La_Temperanza/pseuds/La_Temperanza
Summary: It’s over way too soon, much too quickly for Victor’s liking, when Yuuri jerks back less than a second later. He still has fistfuls of Victor’s yukata clenched in his hands, his fingers scorching like molten firebrands against the now exposed skin of Victor’s collarbone.No, not firebrands, Victor mentally amends. More like a shooting star, burning bright as it zips across the night sky. Solitary celestial beings who are beautiful to behold, to wish upon, but impossible to catch.Victor is going to try anyway.“Yuuri,” he whispers. He cradles Yuuri’s flushed face delicately within both his palms. “Can I kiss you?”In the middle of training for the Grand Prix Final, Yuuri and Victor take time to enjoy Hasetsu's Tanabata festival and grow closer together in the process.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [clae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clae/gifts).



> Clae, when your prompt mentioned anything related to stars, I thought about how we never got the anime cliche of a Tanabata festival and said, "Oh, I can do a quick ficlet about that, no problem!"
> 
> Yet here I am, 15k+ later, haha. I hope you enjoy reading this as I did writing it!
> 
> Thanks to [Ollie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/postingpebbles) for the beta and handholding, as well as the We Write Victuuri for their love and support.
> 
> Title comes from the translated lyrics of Stammi Vicino.

“Vicchan?” Victor hears one morning before practice, the sound of his nickname echoing up from the ground floor of Yuu-topia. “Come here please?”

While he had been on his way to attempt to rouse Yuuri back to the land of the living, Victor can’t ignore a request from Katsuki Hiroko. Stronger men have probably tried and failed, fallen to their knees in surrender at the sight of the sweet, cherubic smile that should be listed on every governments’ watch list as a dangerous weapon. 

“Ohayou!” Victor calls out in greeting and pokes his head through the doorway of the main dining area. “You wanted to see me?”

It’s still early in the day, meaning none of the onsen regulars have arrived yet, which leaves the room empty except for the eldest members of the Katsuki household gathered around for breakfast. This is one of the few—if not only—instances in their busy jam-packed schedules where they can spend time together alone as a family. The fact they’ve allowed Victor, a complete outsider, into this private moment without any hesitation will leave him forever honored. More humbled than receiving any medal or award. 

“Here.” Hiroko takes the long, rectangular gift box sitting next to her off the tatami mat and offers it up to him. “Something for you.”

“For me?” Victor echoes as he accepts the package, his brows raised almost to his hairline. He wasn’t expecting them to get him anything. Yes, he knows they’re grateful he’s come here to coach Yuuri, but if that’s the case, they’ve already repaid him tenfold. They’ve put a roof over his head, filled his belly with delicious home-cooked meals, and introduced him to the natural wonder that is a Japanese hot spring. Not to mention they seem supportive of his not-so-professional interest in their son, which is more than Victor could ever ask for. 

Out of respect for Hiroko’s elegant wrapping, he doesn't tear the box open in excitement like he usually would. Instead, he undoes the bindings at an agonizing snail’s pace until he can finally lift off the lid. Once he peels back the delicate tissue paper, he stares at dark purple fabric, its navy, gray, and white accents arranged in an abstract pattern that reminds him of ocean waves. 

It takes him a second to register what he’s looking at. “A kimono?”

“Yukata,” Hiroko corrects gently. “It’s…” She trails off and looks over to Mari, saying something in rapid Japanese Victor doesn’t catch. 

“It’s thinner fabric,” Mari explains with a casual wave of her hand. “Cooler. Better for summer.”

“Oh!” Victor slips his hand through one of the wide sleeves to find it is indeed made from breathable cotton. He lets out a wistful, relieved sigh. “Spasibo…” He hates to admit it, but while St. Petersburg isn’t the frigid tundra everyone thinks it to be, it still hasn’t prepared him for the overbearing mugginess of Hasetsu. It’s only late June, yet the moment he walks outside he feels like he’s stuck in a sauna, with sweat automatically beading at his forehead and his hair frizzing into unruly curls if he doesn’t use hairspray to cement it into place. Thank goodness he and Yuuri spend the majority of their time in the climate-controlled Ice Castle; Victor is sure he’d melt otherwise. 

Speaking of Yuuri, there’s the shuffle of heavy footsteps trudging down the stairs before Victor’s favorite sleepyhead enters the room. “Ohayou…” Yuuri says around the yawn muffled by his hand. Strands of his short black hair are sticking out at odd angles, suggesting he just rolled out of bed, his mismatched pajamas are wrinkled and disheveled, and his eyelids are half-shuttered as he stumbles forward like a sleep-deprived member of the living dead. 

It’s _adorable_. 

“Yuuri, look!” Victor unfolds the yukata and holds it front of himself, pinning it at the shoulders with his index fingers. “Your family gave me a yukata!”

Yuuri blinks the last remnants of sleep from his eyes before they grow astronomically wide. “Ehh?!” He points at the yukata, darting his head back and forth between it and his family. “You got him _that_?”

“He needs one,” Toshiya says from behind his copy of the local daily newspaper. “Tanabata is soon.”

“ _Otousan_ , that’s not what I meant—”

“‘Tanabata’?” Victor repeats with a tilt of his head. “What’s that?”

“It’s a summer festival,” Yuuri explains while kneeling down at his usual spot at the table next to Victor. He’s still warm from sleep and it radiates off him in waves. Despite Victor’s previous grievances with the stifling weather, all he wants to do right now is sink into Yuuri’s soft, comfortable warmth. That is, if Yuuri would ever let him. “It happens every year around this time.”

“It’s Yuuri’s favorite,” Hiroko adds as she places a serving of rice, grilled fish, and steamed vegetables in front of them both. Automatically Victor’s mouth waters at the sight, same as it always does with the rest of her cooking. “Since he was a boy.”

“It’s because of all the food,” Mari teases. She pokes Yuuri in the side between his ribs. “But this year he can’t load up on dango and takoyaki like he usually does.”

“Mari-neechan, stop it.” Yuuri squirms out of reach of her probing finger. In the process, he pushes up closer to Victor, who gasps under his breath at the frisson of heat it sends up his spine. Judging by the look Mari throws him over Yuuri’s head, Victor’s not exactly subtle. 

(He’ll have to find some way to thank her later.)

“It must be something very special for it to be your favorite,” Victor murmurs after slinking an arm around Yuuri’s shoulders. There’s a pleased fluttering inside his chest when Yuuri doesn’t shrink away from the weight of his touch. “When is it exactly? We should go together.”

“Really?” Yuuri whirls around to look up at him with bright sparkling eyes and an earnest smile. As quick as they appear though, they’re gone, replaced with a scrunched brow and teeth worrying a plump bottom lip. “But…we’ll have practice the next day, and there’s still a lot we need to work on before the Grand Prix Final…”

“Don’t worry,” Victor reassures him, punctuating his words with repeated pats on the back. “As your coach, I say you’re more than deserving of a free day or two. Consider this another opportunity to build our relationship to the next level, right?”

Instead of running away at the mention of “relationship” like he has before, Yuuri shifts a little on his zabuton cushion, his cheeks flushed a brilliant crimson. “Okay, if you say so.”

“Besides, if you’re that worried about it, I can always push you twice as hard to make up for lost time!”

“…Right. Of course.”

— ˚☆ ༚ —

Victor sighs as he plops down on a bench in the locker area of Ice Castle, feeling each and every single one of his twenty-seven years in his sore and aching joints. He should’ve known better than to mention training twice as hard (even as an off-hand joke) because it seems Yuuri’s taken his words to heart. They’ve run through both the short and free programs so many times Victor’s lost count, with Yuuri insisting he could perform it better than his previous attempts if he gave it yet another shot. If only he could realize what Victor does: it’s not the lack of practice or skill holding Yuuri back, but lack of faith in himself. 

If only Victor could figure out a way to prove it to Yuuri. He’s been trying by giving all his love as promised, but for all his talk about having self-confidence, this is the area where he himself feels the least experienced. How can he freely give something which has been missing from his own life for quite some time now?

He finds the concept fresh and exhilarating, but also a little terrifying if he’s being a hundred percent honest. 

“Um, Victor-san?”

Victor glances up and smiles when he sees Yuuko standing a few feet away. “Hi!”

He likes Yuuko, and it’s not because her girls recorded the now infamous video of Yuuri skating his Stammi Vicino routine, though that’s definitely an added bonus. Aside from Yuuri’s family and ballet instructor, Yuuko and her husband have been Yuuri’s biggest supporters. Plus, Yuuri once shyly admitted it was Yuuko who introduced him into watching Victor perform in the first place, for which Victor will eternally be grateful. 

“How was practice today?” Yuuko asks. “I couldn’t watch the full time because there were errands the higher-ups wanted me to take care of, but you two seemed to be working hard as usual.” She cranes her head in the direction of the rink. “Where’s Yuuri-kun? I thought he’d be with you.”

“He left already,” Victor explains, biting back the residual frustration still churning inside him. “I told him I was stopping practice so neither one of us overextended or hurt ourselves. When I refused to change my mind, he stormed off to the ballet studio to convince Minako to allow him barre time.”

The argument between them hadn’t been Victor’s proudest moment. While he had tried to keep it rational and civil, soon tempers had flared and words better left unsaid surged to the surface. When all was said and done, it was over abruptly with no satisfying conclusion, leaving behind hurt feelings on both parties' part in its wake. 

Unlike Yurio who gravitated to immature shouting matches riddled with filthy vulgarities, or Victor who simmered his emotions under the cover of a practiced charismatic mask, Yuuri expressed his anger like he did with skating and dancing by throwing his entire body, mind, and soul in it. His sagging shoulders bowed inwards and his clenched fists shook and trembled with a quiet intensity. His eyes squeezed forth hot rivulets of tears, his chest heaving as he gulped for air. It was raw, passionate, and like everything else about Yuuri, made it absolutely impossible to look away. 

Too bad it had been directed towards Victor. 

Somehow sensing his thoughts, Yuuko places her hand over the back of his and gently squeezes. “Try not to take it too personally. Knowing Yuuri-kun, he was probably more upset at the situation than at you.” She gives his hand one more squeeze before releasing it. “I did try to warn you that he really hates losing.”

“I don’t get why he’s so convinced he’s going to lose though,” Victor says, running fingers through his hair. He resists the urge to tug on the strands, the image of Yakov’s shiny bald head flashing at the forefront of his mind. “Anyone who has watched five seconds of that video can tell he has the potential to win, so why can’t he?” He leans forward to rest his chin in his palms. “He was doing so well, but then I joked about making sure to work hard so we can take off time to go the Tanabata festival and—”

“Ah, I get it now.”

“What?” Victor pops his head up and stares at Yuuko’s knowing smile. “Get what now?”

“There’s your problem. One, you challenged him, whether you meant to or not,” Yuuko says while beginning to count off her fingers. “Two, Yuuri-kun loves Tanabata. So when you told him practice was over, it was like you were saying you changed your mind about going and had already given up on him before he had a chance to prove himself.” She winces at the sight of Victor’s expression and rushes to add, “You and I both know that’s not what you really meant, and I know deep down Yuuri-kun does too. Just sometimes his brain tells him otherwise, especially when he’s already stressed about something.”

In his head, Victor plays back the argument, word for word. Except, this time he views it from the warped perception of Yuuri’s anxiety and _oh_. As if what happened hadn’t sat well with him before, it sinks to the bottom of his gut now, a foreign intrusion he has no idea how to dig out. 

It’d be so easy to protest that it isn’t his fault. He’s been trying to get Yuuri to open up for weeks—no, _months_ now. Ever since he’s arrived in Hasetsu, he’s done everything he can to fill out his Katsuki Yuuri factoid sheet, only to have both the literal and figurative door repeatedly slammed shut in his face. 

But maybe, _maybe_ he’s been going about it wrong. The entire time, he’s been all talk, blindsiding Yuuri with questions in his eagerness to learn more. Maybe what Victor needs to do instead is step back and learn how to _listen_. 

(He swears he hears Yakov’s resulting scoff all the way from Russia.)

“Actually, I think I have something that might help.” Yuuko hops off the bench and leans over the front counter. After rummaging around for a bit, she shoots back up straight, triumphantly waving something in the air. “Ah, found it! I thought the girls had left it here!”

The book she hands Victor has a watercolor illustration of a couple interlocked in an embrace on the cover, the two dressed in traditional Chinese silk robes and set against a backdrop of stars. The corners of the cover have chipped off and the ink in the worn pages is faded, the once bright colors dulled from age—all signs that suggest the book has been enjoyed multiple times over the years. 

It’s also entirely in Japanese, which he has yet to manage a full grasp on. At least it has helpful furigana over the kanji so a child—or a beginner to the language like himself—can read it with ease. 

“It’s about the story behind tanabata,” Yuuko explains as Victor flips through the book. “I don’t know how much you know already or how well you’ll be able to understand it, but maybe it’s something you can ask Yuuri-kun about.”

Oh, Victor is half-tempted to kiss Yuuko for her brilliance. As to not ruffle any feathers with her husband, he settles for a hug instead, which results in her small shriek ringing in his ears. “Thank you. I’ll promise I’ll return it right away.”

“There’s no need!” Yuuko says, her voice muffled by the hands she has now clamped around her nose and mouth in shock. “Yuuri-kun will understand why.”

— ˚☆ ༚ —

After a lengthy soak in the onsen to loosen his stiffened muscles, Victor retires to his bedroom early for the night. There’s still no word from Yuuri, but Victor is trying to give him as much space for as long as possible. 

(Besides, Minako keeps sending texts about his progress while calling them both “stubborn idiots” in her no-nonsense manner of speaking. So there’s no reason to be too worried, not yet.)

Victor sits propped upright against his pillows, the fabric of his jinbei clinging to the lines of his dewy skin. To his left, he has Makkachin curled up in her usual spot by his side. Every now and then, her tail hits the bed with a lazy, satisfied _thump-thump-thump_ , breaking up the peaceful silence. To his right, Victor has the book Yuuko lent him, its pages splayed wide open. Despite their age, the illustrations remain beautifully detailed, intricate. The muted splashes of watercolor and wispy black strokes left by the paintbrush couple together in tandem to enhance and highlight the wistful mood of the story. Combined with help from the translation app on his phone, there’s enough for Victor to glean the general gist, but he reads it over once more to be sure.

Then twice more.

He can see why the tale is so popular, why it’s celebrated with annual festivals and retold in children’s books. It’s an enduring allegory about finally finding love in one’s otherwise lonesome life, only to have it torn away from your grasp. It evokes an emotion Victor has uncomfortably experienced all too well.

There’s a soft _plip_ of tears falling onto the pages before Victor realizes he’s crying. He doesn’t understand why. Unlike the star-crossed lovers in the story, he gets to see Yuuri every single day. They eat their meals together, they train and run through Yuuri’s programs together, they soak in the hot springs together. He has spent more time with Yuuri these past few months than he has with anyone else in years. More than who he can call friends or rinkmates. More than any of his former lovers. More than his own family.

Yet on days like today, the fear that Yuuri may once again disappear without a trace surges and swells, threatening to drag Victor under. Like there’s a vast endless inky sea of stars separating them both. Seemingly impossible to traverse, no matter how much he struggles against the tide.

Makkachin shifts up onto all fours, stretches, and then whines as she props her head on his shoulder. Victor barks out a wet laugh. While he’s able to fool everyone else about the true nature of his moods— the audience, the media and the sponsors, even Yakov—by hiding behind a plastic smile, Makkachin knows him too well to be fooled. She always knows.

“Thank you,” Victor whispers in Russian. He buries his fingers into golden brown curls and breathes. “You’re such a good girl, you know that?”

Makkachin responds by eagerly licking his face until all his tears are dried. While appreciated, her tongue scrapes against his stinging eyes like a pumice stone. And while he loves her with all his heart, he doesn’t care for the sheen of dog drool she leaves behind. 

Deciding to grab a cool moistened washcloth from the bathroom (as well as a glass of water to rehydrate), Victor goes to slide open his bedroom door and nearly bumps into Yuuri standing outside. “Oh!” 

Yuuri jumps back and drops his hand from where it was raised about to knock. He must’ve showered after returning from practice, judging from his damp hair and freshly scrubbed skin. Yet his eyes are red-rimmed, swollen and puffy as Victor’s feels. 

Victor takes little consolation in knowing he’s not the only one affected by the aftermath of their argument. He knows it’s part of Yuuri’s character to shed tears freely, his fragile glass heart worn on his sleeve. The way he’s so expressive with his emotions is what drew Victor near in the first place. 

But he never wanted to be the source of those tears. It reminds him of his ineptitude, both as being the cause as well as having no clue what to do about it. He’s never been good with people crying in front of him. He never knows how to relate, how to connect, not when he tends to save his tears for when no one else can see them. 

There’s a beat of stifling silence as he and Yuuri both stare at each other before Victor opens his mouth to say something, anything. “Yuu—”

“Sorry!” Yuuri shouts, so sudden and loud it’s startling.

“Wha—” Victor starts to ask before Yuuri cuts him off with a deep bow. It’s not quite the classic dogeza, but enough that his body is folded halfway into an uncomfortable looking ninety-degree angle. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, his words bouncing off the hardwood floors. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Yuuri,” Victor says, a little sharper than he intended, and he doesn’t miss how Yuuri’s already rigid shoulders stiffen even more so in response. 

“Yuuri,” Victor says again, softer this time. He sinks down to the ground, ignoring the creak of protest coming from his knees. “Look at me, please.” When Yuuri lifts his head slowly, expression readied for a reprimand, Victor gives what he hopes is a comforting smile. “If anything, I should be the one apologizing. It’s my fault for trying to tell you what you can or can’t do.”

“But…” Yuuri furrows his brow. “But you’re my coach.”

“I’m your coach, yes,” Victor agrees with a light laugh. “But I’m not a dictator. I can run through your programs, send you to go dance or exercise, and recommend proper rest periods. But ultimately you’re capable of making your own decisions, especially when our practice time is over.”

“It’s okay. I don’t mind.” At Victor’s quirked eyebrow, Yuuri quickly amends, “I mean, I _shouldn’t_ mind. You’ve been doing this for years so you know a lot more about these sort of things than I do.”

Victor does know. He knows about long hours spent on the ice even after the rink has closed for the day. He knows about running through a program ad nauseam, picking at every jump and step sequence from every which angle until they’re perfect. He knows about battered feet and bruised knees, about restricted diets, about a prolonged exhaustion settling deep inside your bones. He knows about clawing your way to the top with tooth and nail, only to discover how isolating it is once you’re trapped at the summit.

“I know what works best for _me_ ,” he says. “But I’m still learning what works best for _you_.” He rises to his feet, guiding Yuuri to stand upright as well by tugging on his hands. “I hope you can forgive me if I make a few mistakes here and there.”

“You are.”

Victor blinks. “Wow, I see.” He chuckles weakly. “I’m surprised you’re so blunt about it.”

“No, wait!” Yuuri shakes his head frantically. “That’s not what I… What I meant was, _you’re_ what works best for me.” He grips Victor’s hands so tightly it’s borderline painful. But Victor doesn’t pull away, can’t pull away, captivated into submission by the earnest nature of Yuuri’s words. “Having you here, being yourself, that’s enough. That’s all I need.”

A burst of warmth punches Victor square in the chest and knocks the air out of his lungs. He’s been wanted before, desired. His audience who wants him to surprise and delight them with his performers. His sponsors who want to use his name and image to line their pocketbooks. His fellow competitors who want to place him on a pedestal and then turn around and attempt to knock him down as a challenge. His past romantic flings who wanted the bragging rights associated with dating Russia’s Living Legend. 

In a brief flash of doubt, Victor wonders if Yuuri is like the others. Maybe he just wants to say he has the Victor Nikiforov as his coach. The mere thought has Victor’s jaw clench. 

But then he remembers preparing for Onsen on Ice. When asked what he wanted if he won, Yuuri said—no, _shouted_ —that he wanted to eat katsudon and win _with_ Victor, not _because_ of him. Besides, Yuuri’s the first to ever ask him to coach. He’s the first to look beyond the role Victor has pigeonholed himself into to see something more. 

“...Hopefully you’ll remember that,” Victor says while grinning widely, “the next time I wake you up to go for an early morning run.”

Yuuri groans. But his smile is as warm as his palms, still clasped with Victor’s own. 

Makkachin interrupts then with a low, pitiful woof, probably feeling ignored by her two favorite people. She hops off the bed and in the process knocks Yuuko’s book down to the floor. 

“Ah, Makkachin, nyet!” Victor reprimands, rushing forward to pick up the book and check for damage. Thankfully, the binding remains intact and looks no worse for wear. He has the funds to track down a replacement copy if needed (probably), but he’d rather avoid the awkward conversation with Yuuko if he can help it. 

“What is—?” Victor hears over his shoulder. When he turns, Yuuri is staring at the book, his mouth open and cheeks pink. 

“Yuuko gave it to me.” Victor holds the book out so Yuuri can get a closer look if he wants. “She said not to worry about it giving it back to her any time soon, and that you’d understand why?”

“Uh, yeah.” Yuuri takes the book and flips through it until he gets to the inside cover. There, scribbled in faded pencil, Victor recognizes the characters for Yuuri’s name, though they’re written in the scrawl of a small child. “It was a gift from my parents when I was really young,” Yuuri explains, his features softening. “Okaasan must’ve lent it to Yuu-chan for the triplets while I was gone.”

The image of young Yuuri, curled up in a chair and pouring over the pages of the story, is almost too precious for Victor to bear. “You can read it to me then, since you know it so well.”

“Eh?” Yuuri looks towards the door, then back towards Victor. “...Weren’t you about to leave though?”

Oh. Right. Victor is now acutely aware how much his face itches due to the combined layer of dried tears and poodle saliva caked on his skin. “I’ll be right back, stay here with Makka.” As an afterthought to their earlier conversation, he adds, “Please?”

As soon as Yuuri nods in agreement Victor dashes off to the bathroom. He forgoes his nightly multi-step skin care regime for once in favor of returning to Yuuri sooner. Yet he still gives his face a good scrub before splashing with cool water to reduce redness, making sure to pat and not drag the towel to dry off. 

When he returns to his bedroom feeling rather rejuvenated and relaxed, he finds Yuuri has taken a seat on the couch. One of his hands is absentmindedly petting Makkachin, who has her head in his lap and is gazing up at him like he’s hung the moon and stars in the sky—something Victor can easily relate to. Yuuri’s other hand is running fingers over the pages with close to a holy reverence, his lips forming the shapes of the consonants as if in silent prayer. 

Instinctively Victor unlocks his phone, intending on posting a picture of the quiet scene to Instagram. But he stops, his fingers hovering mere centimeters from the shutter button, and then pockets his phone instead. As much as he loves showing Yuuri off, he’s going to be selfish and keep this moment to himself. Especially when Yuuri raises his head at the sound of Victor’s return, his small, genuine smile enough to take Victor’s breath away. 

After grabbing a throw blanket, Victor plops down on the unoccupied cushion next to Yuuri. He’s half-tempted to follow Makkachin’s example and pillow his head on top of Yuuri’s thick, glorious thighs, but Victor has learned the hard way not to push his luck too far. He settles for draping the blanket over their shoulders and slinging an arm around Yuuri. “I’m ready whenever you are!”

“...You really want me to read to you?” Yuuri asks, blinking owlishly at Victor with a confused frown. “You haven’t read it for yourself already?”

“I have,” Victor admits, “but I want to hear it read in your own way.” He gives Yuuri’s bicep a firm, encouraging squeeze. “You create music with your body, now I want to see if you can create a story with your voice.”

Heat burns across Yuuri’s cheeks, billowing upwards to ignite the fire in his eyes usually reserved for when he skates. He nods, determination set in his face, and turns to the front page. While he reads it in the original Japanese, his pronunciation is clear, smooth, and steady enough for Victor to follow along. Even when Victor doesn’t recognize a word or two, the melodic tone of Yuuri’s voice provides enough context clues as to the meaning. 

But the majority of Victor’s focus is on Yuuri himself. How his eyes grow downcast, brow pinched, at the beginning where Orihime is alone and discontent with her purpose in life. How his cheeks darken when Orihime and Hikoboshi meet and then soon proclaim their love. How his lips curve downwards when the two are separated, and how they curl back up, beaming, when the lovers are reunited once more. 

Victor is so entranced by the whirlwind of emotions playing across Yuuri’s face he doesn’t notice the story is over until Yuuri closes the book with a muted snap. His fingers linger on the cover, tapping out a haphazard rhythm against the chipboard. After a second, Victor realizes Yuuri’s waiting for his response, and he smiles. 

“Thank you. It’s a beautiful story.” His smile shifts into a grin as he leans against Yuuri. “Very romantic. I can see why you like it.”

Yuuri stutters out a laugh while rubbing the back of his neck. “Ah, I guess. It’s more...it’s more because I like the idea of reaching out for something that feels impossible and doing whatever it takes to get you there.”

“Mm, I agree.” Victor points to the cover where Orihime and Hikoboshi are embracing on the shore of the Amanogawa. “Though they can only meet once a year if the weather is good, right?”

“On tanabata, yeah. Or at least that’s what everyone says,” Yuuri says, shrugging. “Usually the rain is nice enough to hold off, but there have been few times where it didn't.”

“I don’t know if I could be content with such a short amount of time myself.” Victor reaches for Yuuri’s chin and gently grasps it between his fingers. The pad of his thumb strokes the divot underneath Yuuri’s bottom lip. “If there was someone I wanted to hold onto that badly,” he whispers, “I’d never want to let them go.”

There’s a sharp, sudden hitch in Yuuri’s breathing as he stares with widened, watery eyes. It isn’t the first time he’s looked at Victor like this, like he’s afraid Victor might disappear into thin air at any moment. Victor can understand why Yuuri would think that’s a possibility around the time of Onsen on Ice—though Victor always had faith that Yuuri would win—but it doesn’t make sense now. Not after everything they’ve been through together. “...Yuuri?” 

The sound of his own name seems to snap Yuuri to attention. He jerks his head back, his chin slipping from Victor’s grip, and then wildly gestures to the door. “I should go. It’s late and we have to get up early for practice tomorrow.”

The words to try and convince Yuuri to stay are on the tip of Victor’s tongue. For a little longer, if not the whole night itself. But it _is_ late, and after they’ve already reconciled, he doesn’t want to end the night on a sour note. “Okay.” Victor gives Yuuri’s bicep one last squeeze before letting go. “Good night, Yuuri.”

Yuuri rises to his feet and then crosses over to the room threshold, turning back around once he gets there. “…Good night, Victor.” With a clack of the sliding door behind him, he’s gone. 

And then Victor is left alone to wonder what just happened, the metaphorical starlit water lapping at his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This is what Victor's yukata looks like for anyone who's curious](https://78.media.tumblr.com/d90ba57dff7deb30143cd1f4ddf65cae/tumblr_pf3lgusfXH1rrj961o1_540.jpg) ~~Hmm I wonder what Yuuri's looks like? :3c~~


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your wonderful comments! <3 Also a big shoutout to Ollie for stepping up to the beta plate again! ~~If you notice anything off, it's probably because I ignored her advice ahahaha.~~

Victor stares at his reflection in the mirror and sighs. No matter how many times he’s fooled around with it, his yukata still doesn’t look right. There’s decidedly something _off_ about how the fabric lies across his chest, not to mention a weird bulge underneath his arms that isn’t flattering in the slightest. 

Clearly, he needs some help. He’s tempted to privately ask for Toshiya’s assistance, like when he had dressed as Hasetsu’s unofficial tourism ambassador at Onsen on Ice, but thanks to the upcoming festival, Yuu-topia has been swamped with business the past few days. Victor doesn’t want to bother Toshiya, Hiroko, or even Mari with something so minor when they’re busy enough as it is with the rapid influx of customers. 

So that leaves only one other person.

Holding his yukata close to his body to prevent any fashion faux pas—he’s not too worried about exposing anything himself, but he knows how contradictorily modest the Japanese people can be sometimes and doesn’t want to bother any guests—he shuffles down the hall, knocking on the door once before flinging it open. “Yuuri, I—”

Oh. 

Oh _wow_. 

Yuuri stands in the center of the room, appearing like he just stepped off the photoshoot of a yukata fashion magazine. Okay, so Victor isn’t actually sure if those exist, but if they do, Yuuri should definitely be on the front cover for every month. Victor would be responsible for the purchase of at least ten copies himself, if not more. The yukata fits Yuuri like a glove, with every fold and hem in place, the fabric conformed to his curves. The look suits him; not because he’s Japanese, but because it heightens the delightful paradox that is Katsuki Yuuri. With his hair slicked back in the style he wears on the ice, he’s statuesque beauty clad in cotton. But his boyish charms remain present as well thanks to the fact he’s still wearing his signature blue glasses to complete the ensemble. 

(The fact that the slit of the yukata can be pushed aside lends itself to his Eros too. Even if it’s not intentional.)

“Victor?” Yuuri asks, making Victor realize he’s been staring, awestruck. “What is it?”

“My yukata looks like yours,” Victor blurts. That is not what he has planned on responding with—the speech in his mind was more along the lines of an impromptu marriage proposal—but the longer he stares, the more the similarities between their outfits become apparent. Sure, instead of Victor’s purple, Yuuri’s is a dark navy with accents of light blue, silver, and white, but the patterns are exactly the same. “…Yuuuuri! We match!”

Delicate pink blooms across Yuuri’s face and he scratches at his cheek. “Yeah, I know. I’ve had this one for years because it reminded me of…” He trails off, his pink flush blossoming into a bright red. “Anyway! That’s why I was so surprised my parents bought you that one.”

God bless the Katsukis. They deserve all the future in-laws of the year awards and then some. If Victor has to, he will melt down his previous gold medals to make the trophies himself. He just needs to figure out how to condense “Thank you for encouraging our domesticity by giving us matching outfits” to fit onto a plaque. 

“Did you need help with yours?” Yuuri gestures to Victor’s yukata, which is starting to slip off despite Victor’s best efforts to secure it. 

Victor bobs his head up and down. Even if he somehow turned out to be a natural genius at wearing a yukata, he’ll never pass up an excuse for Yuuri to teach him something new. “Yes, please.”

“Well first off, you have it on wrong,” Yuuri says. “With how it’s cut, you need to—” He stops, his fingers hovering centimeters above the obi around Victor’s hips. “Victor, what are you wearing underneath here anyway?”

“Hmm?” Victor grins. It’s surprising to hear Yuuri being so bold all of a sudden. Victor’s not going to pass down an ample opportunity to have some fun. “Why?” he purrs. He places his hand on top of Yuuri’s and presses it against the obi. “Was I supposed to be wearing something?”

Yuuri emits a strangled, incomprehensible screech that’ll probably earn a noise complaint from the other guests later. Yet his hand remains in place with no attempt made to move it. In fact, it clenches tighter into the fabric gathered around Victor’s lower stomach. 

Interesting. 

“Besides,” Victor continues, “it’s not anything you haven’t already seen before, right?” He cocks his head to the side and bats his eyelashes, completing the look with an over-dramatic pout. “Tasukete kudasai, Katsuki-sensei.”

“I knew letting you binge-watch all those dramas with Nishigori was a bad idea,” Yuuri deadpans. Still, without any preamble, he undoes the sorry excuse for a knot Victor has tied his obi in. When the yukata falls open to reveal Victor is, in fact, wearing a black thong after all, Yuuri’s shoulders slump in… Relief? Disappointment?

Victor isn’t sure. And honestly, he doesn’t know which he prefers. 

“This needs to be adjusted.” Yuuri tugs on the yukata until the bottom hem hits Victor’s ankles. “And you need to make sure the left side is folded over on top.”

As Yuuri pulls and tucks fabric into place, a quiet grace imbued in his methodic movements, Victor watches, mesmerized. “Why’s that?” he asks. “What’s wrong with it being the right side?”

“It’s not so much wrong, it’s just… That’s how they arrange the kimono for when someone is buried.”

“Ah.” Victor blanches. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“Also, your collar is too loose.” Yuuri reaches up and smoothes the fabric around Victor’s neck and shoulders flat. His fingers graze Victor’s nape in the process, triggering patches of prickly gooseflesh in their wake that spread down Victor’s spine. 

“If you have it bunched up like that,” Yuuri explains, seemingly oblivious to Victor’s internal struggle, “you’re going to expose too much of your neck.”

“…My neck?” Victor repeats, blinking out of his wistful daydream about Yuuri _undressing_ him versus the other way around. “Why do I have to worry about exposing my neck?”

“No reason,” Yuuri says far too quickly and averts his gaze. “Forget I said anything.”

Well then. Victor will allow Yuuri his secrets for now; a quick search online can provide the answer later if curiosity gets the better of him. “Okay. Then what?”

“Where are the extra strings and sash that go underneath?” Yuuri scans the area around their feet and then frowns. “Don’t tell me you were just wearing the obi?”

“I thought that’s all I needed?”

“No wonder it was falling off…” Yuuri mutters, shaking his head as he turns to search through his closet. After a few seconds he re-emerges, victorious, various strips of dark-colored fabric held aloft in his hand. “Here, I have some extra ones you can use.”

Yuuri is letting Victor borrow his clothes. _Yuuri is letting Victor borrow his clothes_. Okay, so it’s more like Yuuri’s _accessories_ than anything, but still, the thought behind it stands. Heat filters into Victor’s cheeks even as he quietly lifts his arms enough so Yuuri has room to tie at his waist. 

“Eh?” Yuuri jerks his head up, eyes widening. “You…you want me to do it?”

“Please?” Victor starts to flap his arms in a pantomime of uselessness before he realizes he’s messing up the hard work Yuuri has done so far. “You’re so much better at this than I am.”

The compliment seems to flip a switch inside Yuuri. He swiftly flattens the wrinkles Victor has just created before he wraps the cloth strings around Victor’s mid-torso, yanking them tight before tying. The under-sash soon follows afterward, fastened in a similar manner, and Victor can now recognize their importance in keeping the yukata in place. No longer does the fabric feel like it’ll fall off if even the slightest breeze ripples through it.

Yuuri picks up the obi next, only to suddenly stop short. His eyes dart back and forth from the fabric and Victor, his eyebrows scrunched together in an adorable manner. It takes everything Victor has to resist leaning forward to kiss the divot in between them. 

“…Sorry,” Yuuri says. “I’m only used to tying this when it’s on myself, so I’m trying to figure out how to flip it for when it’s on someone else.”

“Oh, I know!” Victor lifts his arms up further and spins around so his back is towards Yuuri. “What if we do it like this? If you go from behind, it’ll be like tying it on yourself, right?”

For a split second, he wonders if he’s pushed too far, if Yuuri will refuse and stop helping altogether. But just when Victor’s about to suggest they try something else, Yuuri’s hands firmly snake the obi around his middle. 

“Like this?” Yuuri asks, his voice muffled as he peeks over Victor’s shoulder to get a better view of what he’s doing. His entire front is pressed flush against Victor’s backside, his breath curling around the shell of Victor’s ear. “Is this okay?”

Victor has to swallow a few times to dislodge the needy whimper stuck in his throat before he somehow manages a shaky nod. It takes all his available concentration to will his body not to react to Yuuri’s touch and to focus his concentration instead on the obi in Yuuri’s grasp. Thankfully, the yukata fabric appears to be very forgiving in the lower frontal region. “Does it have to be tied a certain way?” he asks, mentally patting himself on the back for sounding somewhat normal.

“For men, we use the knot called ‘kainokuchi,’” Yuuri explains. The calming presence seeping off his body disappears when he takes a step back in order to repeatedly wrap the obi over itself. Victor tamps down a shiver at the sudden loss of warmth. “Mari-neechan and Yuu-chan always complain I have it easy since I only have to worry about tying a simple knot whenever I wear this.”

“This is _simple_?” Victor asks. He’s been struggling to follow along with Yuuri’s deft, nimble fingers plucking and twisting the fabric of the obi into a stylized knot to no avail. 

“Simpler, I guess,” Yuuri corrects with a soft huff of laughter. “At least compared to the ones they do.” He slides the tied obi around Victor’s hips so the knot is situated in the back and then moves in front of Victor to judge his handiwork. “How’s that? It’s not too tight, is it?”

Victor drops his arms to his sides and does a little experimental twirl. While he’s positive Yuuri still beats him by miles in the yukata wearing division, at least Victor will make a good impression to the those who have opened up their humble little town to him. “It’s perfect!” He grabs Yuuri’s hands and raises them up, brushing his lips against the backs of Yuuri’s knuckles. “Thank you, Yuuri,” he murmurs. “You truly never fail to find ways to surprise me.”

There’s a sharp knock against wood and the two turn simultaneously towards Mari leaning casually against the doorframe, one side of her mouth quirked upwards knowingly at the scene she’s walked in on. It’s a bit surreal for Victor to see her out of her usual onsen uniform and dressed in a brightly-patterned yukata with delicate pale flower hairpins woven into her bleached blonde locks. 

“You two ready?” she asks as she pulls her signature carton of cigarettes out of a fold in her intricate obi. “Otousan and Okaasan want to take pictures before you leave.”

Forget magazines. Victor will settle for a copy of every photo taken tonight spammed to his Instagram account. He has to work overtime to make up for Yuuri’s lackluster presence on social media after all. 

“I think so.” Yuuri looks towards Victor for confirmation. “Victor?”

“Lead the way,” Victor says, his body thrumming with excitement just below the surface. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

— ˚☆ ༚ —

Okay, so Victor _may_ have not been as ready as he thought.

“I don’t get it,” Yuuri says, his eyes locked on Victor wobbling to and fro like a newborn colt. “How is it you can balance perfectly on skate blades but have problems with _geta_?”

Any words Victor has to say in his defense (which are admittedly few) disappear the instant the traitorous wooden sandals he insisted upon pitch him forward without any warning. He braces for the impact the way he was taught in skating—and hasn’t had to implement in months, if not _years_ —but instead of hitting hard ground, he lands directly in Yuuri’s warm, muscular arms. 

…On second thought, maybe the sandals aren’t that bad after all. 

“Are you okay?” Yuuri asks, slightly wheezing from Victor’s full weight falling on him. “There’s still time to grab your normal shoes, you know. You don’t have to wear these.”

“I’m fine!” Victor pushes himself back up to standing position and brushes himself off, his pride hurt more than anything. Though it’s a little comforting too, to be allowed to fail at something and know there’ll still be someone to catch him. On the rare occasion he did fall in practice, Yakov has always just barked at him to get up and that he was too old to make such rookie mistakes. “I have to make sure I look the part, don’t I?” 

He’s suffered in the name of fashion before—there are some very _unfortunate_ photos from his teenage years floating around the dark corners of the internet to prove it—so he can handle this. Somehow. As long as he doesn’t throw an ankle along the way, he’ll chalk it up as a success. 

He’s about an attempt another hesitant trial step when an arm wrapping around his side stops him. “Put your arm over my shoulder,” Yuuri says, the look of determination on his face tinged pink. “Hold onto me.”

Victor’s not an idiot. He knows Yuuri means it literally, to use him as a crutch against Victor’s own stubbornness. But there’s so much weight carried in those simple words. 

He does as instructed and marvels at how well their bodies slot together. He’s known since the banquet at Sochi when they danced the night away, but it’s been a while since he’s been reminded of the fact. 

It’s nice. He wishes he was reminded of it more often. 

But, just like he is now, he’s learned he has to take small steps around Yuuri. 

The awkward, offbeat clopping of Victor’s sandals echoes out in embarrassing contrast to the muted, assures clacking of Yuuri’s, but soon they’re in tandem as they head towards the festivities Hasetsu has prepared for tanabata. Throughout the week, decorations have sprung up all over town, from the schools to the businesses to even Ice Castle itself. It’s nothing compared to the night of the festival itself though; everywhere Victor looks is an explosion of color and lights. 

Before he can ask the significance behind them, Yuuri is already in his ear, pointing out individual types out. “Those are fukinagashi,” he says, gesturing to the large ornate paper spheres in various colors that hang all around town, a circle of long streamers draping down from them and billowing in the warm evening breeze. “They’re supposed to represent the fabric Orihime weaved.”

“There’s so many!” Victor snaps multiple photos of them with his phone, including one with a tiger-striped design he’ll have to tag Yurio in later. He gestures to the elaborately fashioned nets that dot the bridge rails overlooking the water. “And those?”

“Toami. They’re supposed to bring luck for fishing,” Yuuri says. “You’ll probably see more of those here than in other places inland since we have such a big fishing community here.”

“Makes sense.”

“And the paper cranes are orizuru, for health and long-life,” Yuuri continues and then grimaces. “Once when I was around…eleven, I think? I caught a really bad case of the flu a few days before tanabata. Instead of resting, I kept folding cranes over and over, even though I was almost delirious with fever and couldn’t keep anything down.” He shakes his head at the memory and sighs. “That’s one of the few times I can remember Okaasan and Otousan actually being really upset with me, but I was so determined not miss the festival.”

Victor chuckles. From what he’s seen of Yuuri’s strong-willed nature, he can easily imagine a younger version going to such extreme lengths to get what he wanted. “Did it work?”

“Yeah.” A wry smile spreads across Yuuri’s face. “I was weak from spending the whole week in bed so I was shaking the entire time and didn’t want to eat anything, but at least I was still able to go.”

“I bet even while sick, you still wore your geta better than me,” Victor says, grinning. “I also have a feeling if your parents hadn’t let you go, you probably would’ve snuck out somehow anyway.”

Yuuri ducks his head sheepishly, confirming Victor’s suspicions. “…Yuu-chan was going to try and distract them, asking for help with her obi while Nishigori helped me out the back door.”

Victor throws his head back and laughs. “Yuuri! I never expected you to be such a little troublemaker!” He lifts his arm to ruffle lightly at Yuuri’s hair. “I wonder what other sorts of mischief did you get into, hmm?”

“Nothing, really!” Yuuri holds a placating hand up in his defense. “I ended up feeling too bad about going behind my parents’ back, so I told them about what I had planned. They agreed if I could go as long as Mari-neechan was with me at all times to make sure I went home if I wasn’t feeling well.” He rubs the back of his neck, his tone contrite. “I’m sure she didn’t appreciate having to watch out for her sick little kid brother instead of hanging out with her friends.”

“Hmm, maybe not,” Victor hums in agreement. “But I can tell she cares about you. You’re lucky to have her.”

“Yeah,” Yuuri says. “I really am. She’s always looked out for me, in her own sort of way.”

As they walk throughout the town, the residents of Hasetsu wave or bow their head in passing. Some even greet them by name, with most of them calling out directly to Yuuri. As for Victor, with the exception of the media frenzy surrounding Onsen on Ice, here he isn’t known to the locals as “Victor Nikiforov, world-famous ice skater,” but simply as “Katsuki-san’s ‘kochi’” or even “that good looking foreigner staying at Yuu-topia.”

It’s a refreshing change, to be honest. Like he’s been born anew, thrust into a title and position with a true, important purpose. More meaningful than any he feels he’s had in his previous life, anyhow. More precious. 

An elderly couple Victor recognizes as onsen regulars stop to exchange greetings with Yuuri, the wife pressing something into his hands. At first, he shakes his head and tries to offer it back, politely protesting, but she remains firm, patting his hand in reassurance. Yuuri then bows repeatedly, cradling the item to his chest. 

Victor is fascinated by the entire exchange. After the couple say their goodbyes and walk off, he asks, “What was that all about?”

Yuuri lifts away his fingers to reveal what’s cupped in his palms: a small decorative trinket shaped like a purse, clearly crafted with care. “Kinchaku. It’s to bring wealth and financial success,” he explains as he stares down at it, a sense of overwhelming gratitude written plainly on his face. “It’s for Yuu-topia. Ito-san said she wanted to drop it off earlier, but couldn’t because of the arthritis in her knees flaring up. I told her my parents really appreciate the thought anyway.”

While Yuuri has never mentioned it directly to him, Victor has heard talk about the economic downturn Hasetsu has taken in the past few years. Between that and the numerous fees involved with Yuuri’s skating career, it’s a testimony to the Katsuki family’s business smarts that their onsen remains open while others in the area have shut down for good. But it’s also thanks to the steadfast loyalty of long-time customers like the Ito family. 

“I—” Yuuri looks around and pats at his yukata. “I don’t know where to put it so it doesn’t get ruined until we get back.”

“Here, wait a second.” Victor flags down a nearby vendor. After a conversation involving less of his stilted Japanese and more exaggerated gesturing and pointing, he returns with a bag and tissue paper. “Will this work?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Yuuri wraps the kinchaku in the tissue before tucking it in the bag for safekeeping and easy carrying. “Thank you.”

Without any prompting, his arm returns to the spot above Victor’s right hip, even though Victor’s managed to walk the short distance to grab the bag without stumbling over his geta once. 

Victor decides not to mention it. Instead, he slings his own arm back into place over the width of Yuuri’s shoulders. “So there’s kinchaku, orizuru, toami, and fukinagashi,” he counts off as they press onward. “Are there any others?”

“There’s seven total,” Yuuri replies. “There’s kazukago, which kind of looks like toami, except it’s for cleanliness and to remind people to clean up their trash. Also, there’s sometimes a paper kimono called kamigoromo. You’ll see that one at the clothing shops and tailors since it’s for sewing skills. And then there’s tanzaku.”

The almost reverent way he says the last one piques Victor’s curiosity immediately. “Tanzaku?” he repeats. “And what’s that one for?”

Yuuri opens his mouth to answer, only to be interrupted by his stomach letting out a loud grumble of protest. Victor winces in sympathy; upon Yuuri’s request, they had powered straight through their meal break earlier today to make the most of practice. Victor himself is now starting to feel the hunger pangs creep into his gut. 

“Okay, okay,” he says while chuckling at Yuuri, who’s awash with red-hot embarrassment. “You can continue the lesson after we have some of this festival food I’ve heard so much about.”

— ˚☆ ༚ —

Victor can _smell_ the food stalls set up in the center of town before they’re even in his line of sight, and his mouth waters at the delicious combination of aromas wafting through the air. He’s to the point of nearly drooling when he actually sees the wide selection the festival has to offer. Some of the choices are easily recognizable common staples, such as candied apples and cotton candy, but most appear to be exclusive to Japanese cuisine. He can’t wait to sample them all at least once. “Yuuri, which ones?”

“Eh?” Yuuri whips his head around from where he had gazing intently at a display of skewered chicken. “What?”

“Which ones should we eat first?” Victor asks. He does a grand sweep of his arm in the direction of all the available vendors. “Which ones do you recommend? What are your favorites? I want to know.”

Yuuri flinches and turns his gaze downwards. “Ah, none of them are exactly on my diet plan—”

“You should at least eat _something_ ,” Victor stresses. “You’ve been working hard enough that you can afford to splurge, just for tonight. It’s when you make a habit of it that you have a problem.” When Yuuri flinches again, Victor tries to soothe the unintentional blow to his ego by suggesting, “We can always share servings if it’ll make you feel better?” 

“I guess.” Yuuri pauses for a moment and then leads Victor through the crowd. “Let’s go this way first.”

Victor follows wordlessly until they end up at a booth that’s grilling something small, round, and white over a grated fire. Yuuri pays for a tray of three glazed in a light brown sauce and hands them over to Victor. “Be careful,” he warns. “This can be really sticky, so it’s best to tilt your head back when you eat them.”

“Like this?” Victor asks, doing as instructed. They look almost like giant candied marshmallows, but when the sauce slides onto his tongue along with the doughy concoction, he’s pleasantly surprised. Not only is it sweet like he expected, it also has the salty tang of soy sauce. He hums happily as he chews, swallowing before he exclaims, “Vkusno! What are those?”

“Dango,” Yuuri says, scooting the second one further up the skewer so he can get to it easier. “They’re dumplings made from rice flour.”

He offers Victor the last one while licking sauce off his fingers, and _god_. Victor never thought had a thing for food until Katsuki “My Eros is Katsudon” Yuuri drunkenly pasodobled into his life. 

Instead of taking the skewer for himself again, Victor simply leans forward to bite the dango off, his lips a hair's breadth away from Yuuri’s fingers. He hears a sharp inhale, and when he stands back upright, Yuuri is staring at him with widened eyes. 

“Mm, squishy _and_ tasty,” Victor says. He pokes at Yuuri’s pillowy-soft cheek. “Just like you.”

Yuuri sputters out something incomprehensible, an amalgamation of Japanese, English, and a sprinkle of what sounds like Thai (no doubt due to his time spent with Phichit) thrown in for good measure. 

“What’s next?” Victor asks, pretending to be oblivious to the source of Yuuri’s outburst. “Come on, Yuuri, isn’t there more for us to try?” When Yuuri doesn’t respond, Victor tilts his head to the side with a half-lidded smile. “Or are you going to make me do everything on my own?”

No matter how many times he’s seen it now, he’s always delighted when Yuuri’s inability to back down from a challenge springs out in raring form. After squaring his shoulders back, eyes ablaze and mouth set in a firm line, Yuuri wastes no time tugging Victor from one stall to another on a whirlwind of culinary delights. Soon Victor learns there’s a tendency at Japanese festivals to serve almost everything grilled and on a skewer, the choices ranging from chicken to squid to corn on the cob. With Hasetsu being a seaside town, there’s also plenty of seafood options, such as buttered scallops cooked in their shell, or takoyaki, which are round fried octopus pancakes drizzled with a mixture of tangy sauces.

As if that’s not enough to put him on a pauper’s diet for the next month, there’s also the desserts. While the sweet crepes being served vastly differ from the blini Victor grew up on, it’s enough of a reminder of home that he insists they get one. 

“Not bad,” he says around the piece of steaming hot pastry in his mouth before he offers the cone out to Yuuri. “I’m used to the more savory ones myself.”

“Like with salmon and caviar right?” Yuuri asks as he fiddles with the crepe wrapper. 

Victor raises his eyebrows in surprise, quietly waiting for Yuuri to continue. 

“When I was training in Detroit,” Yuuri explains, “I heard about a Russian festival that happens every year in Ann Arbor, so I dragged Phichit there once.”

“Oh? Did you enjoy it?” 

“It was good, except we ended up eating so much that when Celestino found out, he ran us through sets of suicide drills, burpees, _and_ squats every morning for a week afterward as punishment.” Yuuri visibly shudders. Victor doesn’t blame him. “But I remember the blini were worth it.”

“If they were anything like the ones I grew up on, I think you’re right. But”—Victor reaches over to wipe away some of the crepe’s strawberry filling from the corner of Yuuri’s mouth and then sucks it off his own thumb with a loud pop—“I like this version, too.”

He barely catches the sound of Yuuri’s gasp over the background noise from the crowd, more focused on how his brown eyes are sparkling with flecks of gold in the hazy glow cast by the paper lanterns strung above their heads. His plump lips are stained a deep glossy pink from the strawberries and it’s so, _so_ tempting for Victor to lean forward and kiss Yuuri right here, right now, in front of everyone. Victor wonders if it would taste like any number of the food they’ve eaten tonight, or if there would be an underlying current that only Yuuri embodies. 

Yet with all of Victor’s boundless amounts of self-confidence, he hesitates. He’s knee deep in the midst of discovering which ways are appropriate to show his love to Yuuri. So even though he wants (and how he _wants_ ) he needs to make sure that—

Any doubts are rendered null and void when Yuuri suddenly drops the crepe and closes the remaining distance between them to press his lips against Victor’s. 

It’s over way too soon, much too quickly for Victor’s liking, when Yuuri jerks back less than a second later. He still has fistfuls of Victor’s yukata clenched in his hands, his fingers scorching like molten firebrands against the now exposed skin of Victor’s collarbone. 

No, not firebrands, Victor mentally amends. More like a shooting star, burning bright as it zips across the night sky. Solitary celestial beings that are beautiful to behold, to wish upon, but impossible to catch.

Victor is going to try anyway.

“Yuuri,” he whispers. He cradles Yuuri’s flushed face delicately within both his palms. “Can I kiss you?”

Confusion floods Yuuri’s expression. Victor understands, given the current situation they’re in. But he hopes his request demonstrates how much he trusts Yuuri, with the entirety of his body, mind, and soul. Enough to relinquish full control of what happens next. 

Whatever Yuuri decides, Victor will respect his choice. 

The second or so of silence passing between them is nothing short of pure torture. But while Victor tends to rush headlong into most things, he’s patient for this; patient for Yuuri. Still, a wave of relief washes over him when he sees the realization finally click into place inside Yuuri’s head. 

The instant Yuuri nods jerkily in response, Victor bends forward, grazing his lips against Yuuri’s slightly parted ones once before pressing them together again. As to be expected, the taste of strawberries and whipped cream from the crepe lingers there, as does a wisp of rich, charred wood from the grill smoke heavy in the air. He chases it along the swell of Yuuri’s bottom lip, then off the crest of his Cupid’s bow, until only Yuuri at his quintessential core remains. 

And then Victor chases that, too. Just like he has been, all this time, ever since he hopped on a plane straight from Russia in order to fulfill an overdue promise. One he would’ve eventually given up on if not for a certain viral video making rounds on the internet.

His hands snake their way back until they find refuge in Yuuri’s hair and cup the back of his head. Hazily, Victor realizes Yuuri’s hands are moving too, curling and unfurling down Victor’s chest before they rest directly on top of his heart, claiming quiet ownership to something that has already been given freely. Like a wilted flower turning towards the sun, Victor leans into the touch, praying the rapid fluttering of his pulse underneath Yuuri’s grasp spells out what words cannot. 

A sudden piercing whistle, followed by a crackling boom, startles them both apart, allowing the surrounding outside world to come whooshing back into focus with a cacophony of sounds, smells, and sights. The festival’s fireworks continue to burst in showers of multi-colored sparkles in the night sky overhead, but Victor is more than content with watching the display of light in the reflection of Yuuri’s vibrant eyes. 

Neither of them have yet to say anything; honestly, Victor doesn’t know if he’d be able to even hear himself speak over the blood rushing through his ears. Though there’s one string of syllables his mouth can form due to muscle memory alone: “Yuuri?”

Judging by their past conversations on the subject, Victor’s always assumed Yuuri lacks experience when it comes to romance and relationships. But he doesn’t exactly fit the blushing virgin archetype either—anyone who has seen his skills on the pole can attest to that. 

No, Yuuri is just _Yuuri_ ; unlike anyone Victor has ever met, constantly surprising him.

It’s why Victor is unprepared for when Yuuri surges forward and grabs him firmly by the hand. “Victor, let’s get out of here,” he says, almost to the point of demanding. Both his lips and cheeks are tinged a brilliant crimson and have Victor resisting the urge to smother them equally with kisses. “I just… I just really want to be alone with you right now.”

And it’s impossible for Victor to deny a request like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here's what Yuuri's yukata looks like](https://78.media.tumblr.com/137a362ea12aa026f7511365b712e6cc/tumblr_pfhdt7xd5W1rrj961o1_540.jpg). ~~Why yes, I did try to get them as close to Stammi Vicino colors as possible.~~


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, we go, final chapter! As always, thanks to Ollie for being my beta. <3

A comfortable blanket of silence settles over them as they search for someplace more secluded. Their hands remain linked the entire time they walk, a shared pocket of warmth that expresses more than words ever could. 

Victor’s been aware of Yuuri’s presence for a while, starting when he first saw Yuuri’s performances and recognized enough of himself in them to assume Yuuri was a fan. His awareness was expanded tenfold at the Sochi banquet and has only grown exponentially since then, nurtured by the time they’ve spent together in Hasetsu. 

Now, even when Yuuri is simply standing by his side, Victor is overwhelmed by the magnitude of hold this person has upon him without realizing it. He’s a satellite snared in Yuuri’s gravitational orbit, unable and unwilling to be apart for too long before he’s drawn back in again. 

The hustle and bustle of the festival fades away into the scenery behind them as they head down to the shoreline. At the beach, Yuuri slips off his geta, opting to continue on barefoot, and Victor gratefully follows suit. While he’s grown accustomed to walking in the sandals without assistance, he doubts he’d be able to stay upright in the soft, crumbling sand. 

Gathering up the fabric of his yukata so his hem doesn’t get so dirty, he catches up with Yuuri, who’s gone ahead to dust off a space to sit on the nearby cement retaining wall. Victor can’t be certain, but he swears it’s the same spot where the fateful conversation that defined Victor’s role in Yuuri’s life took place. The significance isn’t lost on him; this new development in their relationship hasn’t changed anything since then, but only built upon the foundation that’s been present from the beginning. 

When he takes a seat next to Yuuri, he tilts his head upwards and gasps. “Oh, _wow_.”

Away from the harsh artificial glow of Hasetsu’s electric lights, the stars shine and twinkle with a blinding intensity. The entirety of the night sky is illuminated by shifting swirls of pinks, purples, and midnight blues on a endless black canvas. 

“Yeah.” Yuuri breathes out a wistful sigh, reclining back on his hands propped behind him. “This is one thing I missed when I was in Detroit. You can’t see as many stars there as you can here, though it‘s nothing now compared to when I was a kid. Something about the increased light pollution blocking the weaker stars out.”

“St. Petersburg is the same way,” Victor says with a rueful smile. “Either from that or the cloud cover. If I really wanted to get a good view of the stars, I’d have better luck going out to Lake Ladoga.”

“Ladoga?”

“It’s a lake in Leningrad, part of Northwest Russia, out in the middle of the countryside,” Victor explains. “My family keeps a vacation home out there. I used to visit it every summer when I was younger.”

His Yuuri, smart as ever, catches on quickly. “‘Used to’? What happened?”

Victor shrugs and lets out a weak chuckle. “Ah, no real reason. It’s still there, waiting for me whenever I want to use it. I just became so busy with everything, I could never find any free time to go.” He interweaves his fingers with Yuuri’s right hand and squeezes. “Maybe I can take you there next year, right after the end of the skating season.”

There’s a tell-tale hitch in Yuuri’s breathing, and his fingers stiffen in Victor’s grasp. 

“Do you think Orihime and Hikoboshi were able to meet this year?” Victor asks to hastily change the subject. The last thing he wants is to make Yuuri uncomfortable by pushing too fast too soon. Even if he already struggles to visualize a future without Yuuri in it. “They must have, right? It’s beautiful out tonight.”

“I think so too,” Yuuri says. He turns his gaze up towards the stars. “Actually, I can see them right now.”

“What, really?” Victor darts his eyes back and forth but fails to notice anything out of the ordinary. Then again, he doesn’t exactly know what he’s supposed to be looking for. “Where?”

“When I was younger, Otousan taught me how to find which stars are supposed to represent them.” Yuuri lifts his left hand and points to an area in the middle of the sky, halfway above the horizon. “Like that’s Orihime, the bright blue one above the others that look a trapezoid.” He slides his finger slightly down and to the right. “And that’s Hikoboshi there. They’re on a diagonal line straight across from each other.”

It requires some strategic squinting and head-tilting before Victor finally locates which stars Yuuri are referring to. “Oh! I think I see them!”

“Yeah?” Yuuri beams a pleased smile in Victor’s direction before turning back his face back towards the sky. “Ah, I’m glad. I was hoping the weather on your first Tanabata would be clear enough for you to see them.”

 _First Tanabata_ , Yuuri says. Suggesting there’s a possibility of Victor attending others later. 

The thought makes Victor almost dizzy with anticipation. 

“Thank you for showing me,” he says, though his focus is no longer on the stars. Instead, it’s on how the light breeze coming off the water ruffles through Yuuri’s hair. How the sparkle of his eyes isn’t dulled in the cover of night. How hard it is to resist tracing along the curves of his smile. “They’re beautiful.”

Yuuri dreamily hums in agreement. If he grasps the true meaning behind Victor’s words, he doesn’t show it. “They’ve always reminded me of you.”

“Of me?” 

Yuuri freezes and oh, Victor suspects that part wasn’t meant to be said aloud. 

“Yuuri, please.” Victor rubs his thumb repeatedly over the back of Yuuri’s hand. “Why do they remind you of me?”

“I already told you how I’ve always looked up to you, ever since I saw your skating for the first time.” Yuuri hunches his shoulders over, his cheeks darkening. “I used to think you were like the stars because while you both looked so close, when I went to reach for you, you were…” He stretches his free hand out towards the sky, as far as possibly he can while remaining seated, and then lets it drop to the ground next to him in defeat. 

_Untouchable_. 

Victor has heard every variation of that word used to describe him before, ranging from news articles to competitors to fellow rink-mates. The idea that Victor Nikiforov is miles above and alone from everyone else has become so happenstance, cemented into the minds of society, that he had begun to believe it himself after finding no other alternative. 

“Ah, I see.” He raises their conjoined hands up in a repeat of what Yuuri did and notes how they’re able to stretch further, together. “And now? Do you still think that?”

“Not anymore.” Yuuri gently shakes his head, his gaze resting on their outstretched hands. “Now you’re more like the sun, which I guess is still technically considered a star, but…it’s _different_. You’re a lot brighter once you’re up close, and you’ve been there for me when I needed it to lend me your warmth…” He trails off and then cringes. “It sounds really cheesy when I say it like that—ah!”

He flails a little as Victor yanks him by their hands so he falls into Victor’s arms. “It’s _perfect_ , thank you,” Victor murmurs into the shell of his ear. “You know, you’re like a star too.”

“Eh?” Yuuri pushes himself up to stare at Victor, his glasses nearly slipping off the tip of his nose. “How so?”

“‘I pochemoo tak, kogda vi siyayete, manite v nebo, v obyatya shirokiye?’” Victor recites as he gently straightens Yuuri’s glasses for him. “‘Smotrite nezhno tak, serdtze laskayete, zvyozdi nebesniye, zvyozdi dalyokiye?’”

 _Why when you shine, do you lure me hard, to the embrace of the wide sky? You look tenderly, you caress my heart, heavenly stars, stars from afar, why?_

He huffs out a chuckle at the look of confusion on Yuuri’s face. “Sorry, it’s from a poem about stars my mamochka used to read to me as a child,” he explains, brushing a stray lock of hair out Yuuri’s eyes. “I’ll read the full thing to you later, but as for right now…” He cups the side of Yuuri’s face. “Yuuri, can I kiss you?”

Yuuri blinks, and Victor can feel heat rush to the surface of Yuuri’s skin underneath his palm. “Are you going to ask me that every time?” 

“If that’s what you want, I will.” A playful grin spreads across Victor’s face. “Would it be better if I asked politely? Like, ‘May I please kiss you here?’” He lightly taps Yuuri’s cheeks and then walks fingers up to his temples. “Or here? Or maybe”—Victor drops his hand to drag his thumb over Yuuri’s bottom lip—“you’ll even let me to kiss here again, hmm, zvezda moya?”

Yuuri lets out a pitiful whine that sounds like a mix between Victor’s name and Japanese that Victor swears is the word for tease. 

“Well, Yuuri?” Victor prompts, his voice lowered to a deep rumble vibrating within his chest. He’s so close he can feel every time Yuuri exhales, the warm moist air dampening his exposed skin. “Which one? Tell me.”

Suddenly, his hand is torn away, snagged in a firm, steady grasp, and Yuuri has his eyes locked directly with Victor’s as he breathes out, “ _Surprise me_.”

It’s like the oxygen has been ripped out of every single cell in Victor’s body. He expels a shuddering gasp, taking one whole second to recover and stop his head from spinning. 

And then, he surges forward. 

He doesn’t kiss just one of the spots he mentioned but all _three_. One after the other, he peppers a multitude of kisses across Yuuri’s temple and cheeks before capturing Yuuri’s mouth for his own. Unlike the first time, there’s no hesitation present in any of their movements, Yuuri responding with a level of intensity equal to Victor’s. When he parts his lips open in a silent invitation, Victor moans before he very, _very_ eagerly accepts. 

Traces of the unique flavors they shared earlier remain on Yuuri’s tongue, seasoned by the salty sea spray carried on the ocean waves. Victor drowns himself in it, in _Yuuri_ , with the frenzied fervor of a man in the desert at the first sign of water. The bleak cries of gulls soaring overhead filter through his hazy consciousness, and now, instead of St. Petersburg, he’ll link them with this beach, this moment. The solid weight of Yuuri enclosed in his embrace, the warmth of their bodies tangled together, the sensation of fingers scrambling through hair for traction and burning a pathway of fired up nerve endings in their wake. 

Never before has Victor regretted the human body’s requirement for fresh air as much as he does in this instance. But when he tries to pull away, Yuuri makes the sweetest noise of protest in his throat while sucking on Victor’s lip, leaving Victor to idly consider the merits of asphyxiation compared to being able to kiss Yuuri a little longer. 

They do separate eventually, their heavy breaths crashing in sync with the ebb and flow of the tide. Surprisingly, Yuuri is the first to speak. “Did I… that was okay, right?”

Victor stares at Yuuri—at the sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead, the splotches of color high on his cheeks, the enticing swell of his red, glossy lips—and wonders how it’s possible for a person to be so clueless about how beautiful they truly are. “More than okay,” he assures, pressing their foreheads together in spite of the unpleasant tackiness. “Yuuri, you’re _amazing_.”

Yuuri’s mouth twitches into a small, satisfied smile before he turns to place a shy kiss onto Victor’s cheek. “You are too, Victor.”

Victor’s unable to stop himself from returning the favor to Yuuri’s opposite cheek. He’s quickly discovering that kissing Yuuri is addictive; now that he’s started, it’s almost impossible for him to quit. 

“Ready to go back home?” he asks. It slips out without him realizing it, but it’s just so easy to refer to Yuu-topia as home, to the people who have welcomed him with open arms as friends and family. 

But Yuuri, as full of surprises as ever, shakes his head. “Not yet. There’s one more thing I have to show you.”

— ˚☆ ༚ —

The list of things Victor finds fascinating about Yuuri is endless, theoretically stretching for miles and miles and miles. But one commonly occurring theme has always been interest in Yuuri’s cultural upbringing in comparison to Victor’s own. Since his arrival, Victor had been curious about the offset side room in Yuu-topia with the ornate cabinet Hiroko had called a “butsudan” when asked. He’s marveled at the tall red torii gates he and Yuuri often pass by on their daily jog. He’s delighted in tales of ninja and yōkai cleverly represented by the ancient architecture and statues scattered around town. 

So even though this isn’t his set of beliefs and traditions, a sense of quiet reverence washes over him when they wind up at the local temple of all places. Victor’s been here plenty of times before, mainly when he was training Yuri to discover his Agape. Yet Victor still mimics Yuuri’s actions to ensure he gets them right; first they bow deeply before stepping on the grounds, and then they “purify” their hands and mouth with the water at the dragon-shaped chozuya basin. 

(He admittedly hesitates when it comes to rinsing his mouth. What he shared with Yuuri on the beach was special, practically a holy experience in of itself, and he doesn’t want to risk it being washed away, especially so soon afterwards. He at least takes solace in the fact there’s a high chance of kissing in his near future to make up for it.)

They don’t head to the main temple to pay their respects like usual. Instead, Yuuri takes Victor towards the inner bamboo garden. When they round the corner, Victor stops dead in his tracks. 

Hundreds if not thousands of strips of paper in various colors are tied to the bamboo shoots, each one with a different handwritten message on it. There’s so many that they’re stacked one on top of the other and he watches, awestruck, as people around them tie even more up to add to the massive collection. 

“Are these like…” Victor starts to ask, but then struggles to remember the word in Japanese. “The things with that sound like em…em… You know, the wood plaques you write on?”

“Ah, I think you mean ‘ema’?” Yuuri suggests. 

“Yes that’s it!” Victor snaps his fingers together and nods repeatedly. “Those things!”

“Kind of, I guess,” Yuuri says, shrugging. “These are the tanzaku I was talking about earlier. You write down your wish on a piece of paper and tie it to the bamboo for it to come true.” He gestures to where there’s a table set up nearby with blank tanzaku paper strips to purchase. “Want to leave one with the others?”

Before he’s even finished asking the question, Victor’s eagerly tugging him towards the table. As Yuuri goes to wait in the short line to pay for their tanzaku, Victor muses about what he wants to wish for. 

There’s the basic option to wish for good health, which is always an important thing to keep in mind as a professional athlete. But with the exception of a few creaky joints in the morning to rudely remind him of his advancing age, Victor tends to be healthy as an ox. 

Wealth is out too; he has enough from winnings and sponsorship deals stockpiled away in his bank accounts for him to live comfortably even when he finally retires. That’s not even factoring in if he continues his coaching career; while he’s gone down this path only after Yuuri’s asked him too, Victor is finding he enjoys the change of pace and the sense of exhilaration he feels when seeing his beloved student succeed. 

Speaking of beloved… 

He looks over to Yuuri exchanging a monetary offering with one of the temple attendants. As if he can sense Victor’s eyes upon him, Yuuri turns around then, and the megawatt smile lighting up his face is so bright it causes his eyes to sparkle. Victor returns it immediately, his cheeks aching from the force of his own smile. 

“Ready?” Yuuri asks once he walks back over to where Victor is waiting. He holds up his pack of purchased tanzaku plus two calligraphy pens. “Do you know what you want to wish for?”

Victor hums to himself, tapping the side of his chin in thought. “Does it have to be in Japanese?”

“No, I don’t think so, though I could always write it out for you if you want,” Yuuri offers. “But I’ve seen plenty of foreign tourists write something in their own language before. At least you’ll be able to tell which one is yours right away.”

“Okay then.” Victor selects one of the strips for his own and then uncaps a pen to write down a wish. 

But nothing’s coming to mind. 

It’s funny. A year ago around this time, he would’ve had no shortage of things to wish for. He would’ve wished for the opportunity to spend more time with Makkachin as she enters her twilight years. He would’ve wished to return to an actual _home_ at the end of a long, hard day rather than just a place where he stored his belongings. He would’ve wished for a source of inspiration to gain his excitement for skating back. He would’ve wished for someone to see him, really _see_ him, and still accept him, flaws and all. 

He would’ve wished not to feel so _alone_. 

But now he has all that and more. And it’s entirely thanks to Yuuri. 

The realization makes Victor’s choice for him. While he doesn’t have to wish for a chance at love, not anymore, he can wish to have the strength to hold onto it. To nurture it and be there to help it flourish. In his crisp native Cyrillic, characters condensed down to fit the narrow width of the paper, he writes “Хочу, чтобы моя любовь всегда поддерживала Юри.” He tacks on his loopy signature at the bottom, along with a silly doodle of Makkachin riding on a shooting star. 

After he’s done, he sneaks a peek over Yuuri’s shoulder. Victor recognizes the katakana for his name, along with the word “please,” but he’s unable to read the whole thing. 

It’s fine. Whether or not Yuuri wants to tell Victor what it says is completely up to him. 

When Victor threads twine through his tanzaku and then lifts it up, the paper performs pirouettes in the process, dancing to and fro. “Now do we hang them up,” he asks, “or is there something else we have to do with them first?”

“We can hang them up now.” Yuuri darts his head around until he points out a spot on the bamboo that is less crowded in comparison to the others. “Let’s put them right over there.”

Attaching the tanzaku to the bamboo takes no time or effort at all. Afterwards, Victor steps back and admires their handiwork, pulling his phone out to take a commemorative photo of his wish displayed besides Yuuri’s. 

He won’t post it though. There’s no need to run the risk of self-proclaimed internet sleuths translating the messages and broadcasting them over social media. While Victor does think Yuuri should open up a little more, especially to his fans (who Yuuri erroneously insists are few and far between), sharing their tanzaku to the outside world kind of ruins the sanctity of the whole experience somehow. 

No, he won’t post it. But at least he’ll have the photo as a token to remember it by, long after the ink has faded and the paper crumbles to dust. 

Victor bites back an abrupt yawn, fatigue finally setting in after a long day. A quick glance at the time reveals it’s a lot later than he realized. The old adage about time flying while having fun must ring true after all. 

While he’s always been an early bird, Yuuri runs on the other end of the spectrum with his extreme night owl tendencies. Yet even he’s looking a little worn around the edges, his head dangerously close to drooping towards Victor’s shoulders. Victor doesn’t mind of course. He’s more than willing to be the support Yuuri needs, whether it be physical or emotional. But they also have an early practice time tomorrow and shouldn’t be out later than necessary.

(Maybe Victor will abuse his coach privileges and push it back an hour or so. Just to be safe.)

“Is there anything else you wanted to do tonight?” Victor asks gently. He rubs between Yuuri’s shoulder blades and mentally counts the individual knobby vertebrae in his strong, supple spine. This is the back that can bend and arch with the graceful nature of a willow sapling in a windstorm when he skates. When he dances. When he wows audiences all over with the music he creates with his body. 

This is the back of the man Victor has given his love to.

The shivers rippling through Yuuri’s body rumble underneath Victor’s fingertips. A delicious pink flush floods Yuuri’s cheeks and he briefly swipes his tongue out to moisten his lips. 

Oh. Victor wonders whatever his Yuuri could be thinking about right now. 

Before he has the chance to ask, Yuuri suddenly stands up straight, ramrod stiff. “Um,” he mumbles, avoiding eye contact with Victor, “the onsen is closed to the public today, but we’re still allowed to use it on our own.”

A nice relieving soak underneath the stars sounds like the perfect way to end the evening. “Okay.” Victor nods, smiling. “Let’s go then.”

The normally bustling Yuu-topia is dark and quiet when they return, everyone else already in bed. A note from Hiroko is left by the door, informing them there’s leftovers in the fridge if they’re hungry and that Makkachin has been walked and fed for the night. Sure enough, Makkachin is snoring away on a pile of seat cushions, sprawled out on her back and dead to the world, no doubt exhausted from being spoiled rotten by her future human grandparents. 

Victor decides to let her continue sleeping for now. As it is, he’s a little more preoccupied with following Yuuri into the onsen’s communal changing and bathing area. The sound of water dripping against tile echoes loudly in the empty room in conjecture with the rustling of their clothes. 

Victor goes to disrobe like usual but then stops. 

Yuuri catches the hesitation immediately. His shoulders tense into a rigid line. “What is it?” he asks. “What’s wrong?”

“Ah, it’s nothing, don’t worry!” Victor flashes a reassuring smile. He hopes that nips any of Yuuri’s worry in the bud before it has time to grow any further. “It’s just a little sad to take this off after all your hard work.” He pokes at the kainokuchi knot, still keeping his yukata in place after all these hours. “Though I don’t even know if I’ll be unable to untie any of it anyway!”

He means it as a joke, of course. He’s worn complicated skating costumes based on lingerie and bondage before; he more than capable of handling a couple of fancy knots. 

But before he knows it, his fingers are plucked away from his obi and replaced with Yuuri’s own. The heat in Yuuri’s eyes rivals that of the steam clouds billowing around them, the temperature spiking a thousand degrees when he says, “Let me do it then.”

So Victor does.

— ˚☆ ༚ —

While gold doesn’t quite match any of the colors in his yukata, Victor doesn’t mind. If anything, it makes the band on his right ring finger stand out even more. And while Yuuri might be weirdly embarrassed about Victor trying to show off his ring yet again, he has no room to talk when he can flaunt it just as much himself sometimes. The one photo he posted on Instagram immediately after Worlds, with their right hands clasped together over Yuuri’s and Victor’s respective gold and silver medals, is proof of that. 

Speaking of Yuuri, Victor smiles as he suddenly feels his fiancé’s warm body fit flush behind him, strong arms snaking around his waist. 

“You’ve gotten better at tying your yukata,” Yuuri informs him, a rumble of pride reverberating through his words. 

“I had a good teacher,” Victor replies. He flutters his eyelashes shut as Yuuri’s hands slot into place around his hips. “Domo arigatou gozaimasu, Katsuki-sensei.”

“Your accent is still terrible though.”

Victor gasps, eyes flying back open. “Yuuri, no fair!” he cries out, dismayed. “I don’t make fun of your Russian!”

There’s a huff of laughter against the nape of his neck. “That’s because somehow you find me stumbling over verb conjugations adorable,” Yuuri says. “Everyone else at the rink can recognize how bad I am at it. They’re just too nice to say anything.”

Victor knows that’s a hundred percent not true. Yakov doesn’t care what language skaters at his rink speak in. In fact, he’s actually expressed how he wishes others underneath his tutelage would spend “less time chatting and more time on the ice like Katsuki.” Madame Lilia is more concerned by how Yuuri speaks through dance, recognizing his talent instantly like Victor knew she would. Georgi sighs wistfully about the struggles one endures in the name of love while Mila probably coos at Yuuri’s flustered attempts at Russian more than Victor does. 

The only person who Victor might’ve been concerned about is Yuri. But when his poor sweet Yuuri stubbed his toe the other day and hissed out a stream of Russian vulgarities that could’ve only come originally from a certain Russian Ice Tiger, Victor’s started worrying less about Yuri being rude and more about _what_ he’s been teaching Yuuri behind Victor’s back. 

Lips pressing against his pulse point interrupts any further thoughts Victor has on the subject. “Are you almost ready to go?” Yuuri asks between kissing the juncture of Victor’s neck and shoulder. “Everyone else is waiting downstairs.”

“Hmm, I don’t know. If I say yes, does that mean you’ll stop what you’re doing?” Victor pretends to consider the possibility for half a second before he shakes his head. “If that’s the case, then nope! I need another five minutes before I’m perfect, at least.”

“As if you’re not already perfect,” Yuuri teases fondly. He plants one last kiss to the back of Victor’s neck before he pulls away. “Come on, Vitya, before Yurio starts looking for us,” he says, sliding his grip down Victor’s right arm until their hands are linked together. Their rings let out a soft clink as they slide past each other, a small reminder of church bells ringing out from a cathedral in Barcelona where a lifelong promise was made on a cold winter’s day. “I think he’s still angry about the last time he walked in on us.”

“He’ll have to forgive you if he wants your help writing his tanzaku,” Victor points out. He brings up their conjoined hands and runs his lips over the cool metal of both of their rings. “Though I’m much more interested in what you’re going to wish for this year.”

“I—” Yuuri starts to say but then stops. A swatch of pink paints itself across his cheeks as he stares at their hands. “…I already have everything I’ve wished for,” he finally admits. 

Oh, there’s not enough room in Victor’s body to contain the amount of love he has for the man in front of him. It must be why his heart feels so full. “Me too,” he whispers, leaning down to press their foreheads together. “Me too.”

And then: “Yuuri, can I kiss you?”

He’s beyond pleased when Yuuri’s answer doesn’t take up another five minutes. 

Instead, it takes _ten_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Victor recites to Yuuri is ["The Stars by Sergei Yesenin](https://russianlegacy.com/russian_culture/poetry/esenin/stars.htm). Also, a big shoutout to Alice in the We Write Victuuri for helping with the poem as well as the Russian for what Victor writes on his tanzaku.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, kudos and comments are always appreciated, thank you! <3


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